


Sobbing

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [80]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Object Penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week later, John is evaluating his life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sobbing

**Author's Note:**

> by demand, part two of "whip."

It only takes a week for John to realise that Sherlock’s favourite time to fuck him is after he’s already brought him off, when John is panting and limp and lying in the sticky pool of his own come. Then will John feel the nudge of Sherlock’s cock between his legs, wet and slick and warm pushing against his hole and slipping inside him and John will sob and yell as Sherlock fucks him hard and merciless into the mattress.

It’s always in John’s room because…well…John is a screamer, as Sherlock had already noted that first day, and Mrs Hudson has already learnt to her peril that there are some alarm calls that just shouldn’t be answered.

John hadn’t been able to look at her for three days after that, when she had run in, panicked at the screams, only to find Sherlock kneeling between John’s thighs and John on his belly with his arse in the air trying desperately to fuck himself on the torch (yes, _that_ torch) that Sherlock was holding for him, cruelly motionless in spite of John’s wild pleas.

Sherlock, of course, had merely looked over his shoulder at the interruption.

“Yes Mrs Hudson?” he had asked. “What do you want?” and when John had tried to disengage with an oath Sherlock had shoved the torch in as far as it could go with one hand and with the other had smacked him hard across the arse.

“Did I say you could stop?” he had said to John, and John had babbled something wordless as the hard slippery edges of the torch had stretched him relentlessly open and he had come hard and long, shouting Sherlock’s name into the sheets while Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway and gaped.

She had fled even as Sherlock pulled the torch out, leaving John gaping and empty, and had shoved himself in in its place.

They didn’t use toys, in the strictest sense. John brought it up after a few days, mentioning a website he knew of…but Sherlock had simply looked at him as if he were thick and had said that he was sure he could find some way to keep John entertained.

And he had. _Oh_ he had. Screwdriver handles and hammers, the tip of the umbrella Sherlock said belonged to his brother and the handle of John’s own cane. He used the permanent marker that John had deemed too small, and when John had complained Sherlock had added another marker, and then another, and another, and then when he’d run out of those he’d started on the pens until John was bristling and babbling, filled without being fucked, and Sherlock had left him there, hips gyrating wildly with the injunction not to try anything stupid while he was gone because pens could be incredibly tricky to remove if they went too deep.

Then he had gone to make some tea.

John, weeping desperately on the bed for some kind of friction, had sworn then and there that he would make a point of complaining at least once a week from now on. The results were incredibly satisfying, especially when Sherlock finally came back, slowly removing each instrument one at a time until only the original marker was left and Sherlock had edged his own cock in beside it, leaving it in there while using the end of the marker to rub against John’s prostate and send him over the edge with a wail that had the neighbours knocking on their door five minutes later.

That was the first time Sherlock had been inside him before making him come first and as John’s arse clenched around that hard and giving heat in that first wild and desperate orgasm, he’d decided maybe twice a week would be even better.

Of course, Sherlock had still fucked him into the mattress after that, coaxing John back to hardness with his cock so far up John’s arse he swear he could feel it in his belly, and then, as if to punish him further, he had come inside him and then left him, still hard, his second orgasm still unclaimed, and told him that if John touched himself while Sherlock was gone Sherlock wouldn’t fuck him for a week.

John, because he was John, had only waited till Sherlock was gone before fishing under the bed for the whip again and shoving it inside himself, trying desperately to fuck himself into oblivion. And _oh god_ it had felt good. Mind-numbingly desperately good. He was moaning into the mattress and muttering invectives into the pillow, but the fact remained that no matter how hard and how long he did it, the handle of that glorious whip penetrating over and over that tight little space, he couldn’t make himself come.

Sherlock had found him like that half an hour later, whimpering weakly, his hips twitching and his cock achingly hard, the whip hanging out of his arse. Sherlock had taken pity on him, coming to the bed and running soothing hands over his face, calming him enough to take that wild animal look out of his eyes. And only when John was able to focus an apologetic glance on him did Sherlock lay a gentling kiss against his temple and take the whip in his hand and with a quick, deft hand, thrust it deep into John’s arse and just like that, with a resounding wail John had come, sobbing his completion into the palm of Sherlock’s hand.

“Idiot,” Sherlock had said fondly. “I suggest you listen to me next time.”

And John, nestled against Sherlock’s clothed body, the whip still dangling between his thighs and his body sticky with come and sweat and desperation, had let the exhaustion pull him over into sleep.

And now John is waking, his eyes sticky with that unconsciousness that passes for sleep after Sherlock’s had his way with him, and it’s to find that Sherlock is already inside him again, his cock pressing him open. He’s not fucking John, not moving, simply inside him, the thick length of him an invading force that immediately has John moaning and rolling his hips and feeling utterly, utterly owned.

And that, in that very moment, is when John realises just how fucked he is.

But, he thinks, as he tries to push himself further back on that penetrating weight only to have Sherlock lay a gentling hand on his belly—and John swears he is attempting to trace the bulge of himself inside John’s body—life could certainly be worse.


End file.
